


Vases on the Altars

by bizzylizzy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Unhappy Ending, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizzylizzy/pseuds/bizzylizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end isn’t in Tartarus. It isn’t at the gates of death, or in any conspicuous place. It doesn’t involve heroics or fights to the dead. It doesn’t involve trickery. Only normal human cowardice and fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vases on the Altars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonelyaura](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lonelyaura).



The end isn’t in Tartarus. It isn’t at the gates of death, or in any conspicuous place. It doesn’t involve heroics or fights to the dead. It doesn’t involve trickery. Only normal human cowardice and fate. Chance. It’s a meaningless end that accomplishes nothing except an end. Nothing else. It just leaves a hole in the fabric of reality. An empty space filled quickly by air and emotion but will forever be noticeably _empty._

This is an end like any other end. Silent, unreasonable, tragic, and a little stupid. Preventable. Words like that are hard to apply to something so permanent and personal, but Leo’s getting pretty damn used to that by now. He thinks he should be used to this--that he would have gotten used to it when Percy and Annabeth fell into the pit ages ago, but then they all had hope. Then they still thought they were heroes meant to save the world, not lambs being led to the altar. 

“Cremation?” A low voice asks.

“I’m worried about being haunted. Sue me,” Leo mutters as he shifted the box in his hands. He looks down at the two lovely vases there. Beautiful. Maybe he’ll give them legs so they can crawl around and keep him company.

“Why do we got out in pairs?” Leo asks. “Every damn one, out together like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Do you think I have the answers?” 

“You’re the closest thing to the god of death that I’m ever going to see, so why not? I deserve some fucking answers after all this time, don’t I?” Leo demands.

“By whose logic and whose scales?” The low voice returns, and Leo would turn and fight if he weren’t cradling the vases like children to his chest. It’s not worth it. Few things are anymore, because Leo needs to _conserve his energy_ so he can get the important things done.

“Don’t fuck with me, di Angelo.”

“I’m not the reason they’re dead,” Nico protests in a soft voice, hoarse as ever. If Leo turns,he’ll see the livid scar across Nico’s throat that almost killed him. Almost. A monster had tried to strangle him. Nico should have died then, back when they were heroes and it would have been celebrated.

“What’s that they said? You’re the butcher and I’m the high priest, huh? Burning the bodies at the altar,” Leo tries to make a tune out of the last words. “I should have been the one to go into that hole.”

“That’s selfish of you. Hazel and Frank at least died with a purpose,” Nico murmurs, low tones that make Leo think of churches. They had Percy and Annabeth’s funeral’s in a church. Everything echoed, but was oddly muted. Leo had gotten the creeps. Nico had said it was beautiful with a tragic looked etched into his face and his eyes red from crying. 

Leo barks a laugh. “I guess that makes it okay, huh? At least they died for a cause. Not in a car accident or from a gas leak or because they couldn’t take this shit in their own mind or something _stupid_ like that.” Something so mundane and numbing. Like getting slapped in the face with ice when you were so used to everything being hot. People just didn’t die like that. Not demigods. Not heroes of prophecy. They shouldn’t just _die_ like normal people.

“Or cancer,” Nico adds in a low voice, and Leo just stares down at his box. This is all that remains of Piper and Jason. The heroes, the lovers, the best friend who were supposed to outlive him. Is it wrong that Leo was almost glad to be diagnosed because it meant he would die before anyone else?

“I feel like I’m being punished.” Leo leans into the door, and looks at Nico’s pale face, with its deep hollows sunken under his equally dark eyes. Dark, dark, dark--that’s Nico. Shadows and darkness.

“Maybe it’s a reward. You’re still alive,” Nico suggests, and Leo makes a noise in the back of his throat he’ll never admit to making.

“Still alive so I can die alone? That sure sounds like a reward to me,” Leo sneers and looks down at the hole, where they shoved the damn needle in last time. He skipped this week. He’s going to get hell from his doctors, but he wanted to go to the funeral. He needed to.

Now he feels twice as empty as before and wonders why the hell he ever thought it was a good idea, except he couldn’t think of _not_ going.

“Maybe you’re not alone as you think,” Nico suggests.

“Are you going to come hold my hand the next time they pump poison into me?” Leo asks in the hollow husk of a voice. “Are you going to make me eat when I’m puking my guts out? Are _you_ going to sit by my bed and make sure _I don’t choke on my own vomit_.” The words are heated, and smoke rises from the box in Leo’s hand.

Nico just stares at him, and Leo isn’t really surprised. Nico’s really only the butcher. The kid from the land of the dead who’d waft through every once in awhile but never really seemed to connect with anyone living. How can death scare him? What does it matter if he watches one more person die, but Leo doesn’t think he will. Nico might have before the dark and the jar, but now he won’t. Can’t.

Nico made pretty damn sure that he and Leo wouldn’t go out like Romeo and Juliet, and that’s part of why the kid pisses Leo off so much. But that takes energy, and Leo doesn’t have much of that anymore, so he lets it go before his heart rate kicks up to high.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going back there anyway.” Leo shrugs. “It’s not like it’s a cure or anything. Just slowing things down by trying to kill me a different way.” His shoulder wedges into the door. “And there’s no point in sticking around, is there? I’m the only one left, after all.”

Nico just looks at Leo oddly. Maybe sadly, but he’s distant. Like all of this is through a fog, and while he can talk philosophy, he can’t really engage enough to be emotionally supportive. Doesn’t matter. Leo doesn’t need that anymore. He’s got to learn to live without it for however long he lasts. It won’t be long. The doctor’s use really cheery words like “aggressive” and “spreading” when talking about Leo’s illness.

“I better get inside and put these down.” Leo says as he nudges his door open and walks into his tiny apartment. It’s cold and bare, but he sold a lot of stuff to afford the treatments he’s no longer going to take, even though Piper spent months on fundraisers so they could be an option. There’s really just no point now. He’ll make sure the money goes to fund someone else’s curing poison. That should keep everyone happy.

Leo sets the box down gingerly and sets the vases on the mantle. They look very proper and austere, and Leo hopes he doesn’t have to stare at them long before the damn mass takes him out of this world. Their inertness makes him ache for the sway of Piper’s hair, or the way Jason almost moved with purpose. Leo arranges the vases carefully for a good ten minutes, as if that could make them less dead, then hears something wobble. It’s harsh--porcelain on wood.

“Nico, _don’t_..” Leo turns and sees the little black urn wobble back and forth. He pauses before stepping over to put a finger on the top to keep it upright. It’s cold enough to burn the tips of his fingers. 

“See, I told you that you wouldn’t be coming to hold my hand, so don’t judge me.” Leo takes his fingers from the cool surface. “After all, it’s not like you had the courage to stick around.”


End file.
